by James, Syrie
“I am afraid not. The family is away visiting friends at St. Austell.”
“Oh.” Disappointment surged through her. It felt like her first day in Cornwall all over again. “I seem to have a habit of dashing off to see people who aren’t at home.”
“No need to fret, miss. You can always return another day.” Woodson glanced at her carefully. “Am I correct in thinking, Miss Atherton, that your reason for coming was not purely social? That you wished to retrieve something that you may have . . . inadvertently left on your previous visit?”
Madeleine smiled. “How did you know, Woodson?” Silly question. Woodson always knew everything.
“A maid found a manuscript in the bureau drawer the other day when she was cleaning. She gave it to me.”
“You have it, then?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Where is it?”
“His Lordship has it.”
“Lord Trevelyan?” The idea that the marquess had seen and might have read her manuscript was a bit alarming.
“No, Lord Saunders.”
Madeleine’s heart fluttered. “Lord Saunders?”
“He took it with him two days ago when he left the house. I believe his intention was to return it to you. I deduce that he has not done so?”
“He has not.” Madeleine’s pulse now began to pound. Lord Saunders had had her manuscript for two days? “Woodson. Do you know where Lord Saunders might be?”
“I do, miss.” Woodson’s blue eyes twinkled as he gave her a knowing smile. “He is in Truro.”
Dark clouds gathered as Madeleine rode along. This was unlucky, she thought. It had been fine and warm the past two weeks. Why did the weather have to turn today, of all times, when she was so far from the house?
By the look of the sky, she figured she had just enough time to retrieve her manuscript from Lord Saunders’s workshop and return to Polperran House before the promised rain began. However, she was still about a half mile away from her destination when the first drops began to fall. It was soon raining in earnest.
If only she had on her winter riding habit, which was made of wool—it would have provided far more protection than this lightweight summer habit. By the time Madeleine caught sight of the old barn, rain was dripping steadily from the brim of her hat, her face and hair were sopping, and moisture had seeped in through the layers of her clothes.
A plume of smoke rose from the chimney of the old barn, and she spied Tesla in the stables. Madeleine heaved a sigh. It was the second time this summer that she’d been caught in a storm while on horseback, the second time Lord Saunders would see her drenched to the bone. She glanced at the nearby farmhouse, but didn’t want to impose on total strangers, especially in her current state. She considered giving up on her errand and returning to Polperran House, but she was so wet and cold now she was shivering.
Madeleine trotted up to the barn, dismounted, and knocked on the door. A full minute seemed to pass before it finally was yanked open.
“What is it?” Lord Saunders said testily. Upon seeing her, his irritation vanished. “Miss Atherton. Forgive me.” He took in her bedraggled state, glanced at Black Shadow. “Please come in out of the rain, while I stable your horse.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was pouring down in torrents as Charles raced from the stables back to the barn.
He had a pretty good idea what had brought her here. Her manuscript.
The knowledge that Miss Atherton was inside his workshop, waiting for him, alone, made his heart pound as fast as the rain.
Nothing had changed. He was still bound to Sophie. But that didn’t stop him from wanting this woman, however wrong it might be.
Now she was here. She would have to stay here while she waited out this god-awful rain. It was going to be a test of his willpower to stay away from her. But he had to. He had already gone too far just in kissing her the way he had.
“There,” he said, entering and wiping off his muddy boots on a mat inside the front door. “Your horse is fed and safely stowed in the stables.”
“Thank you so much.” Miss Atherton had removed her hat and leather gauntlets and was standing in front of the potbelly stove, as drenched as he was, holding out her hands to the fire. Her tailored riding jacket and long skirts were fashioned from some silky summery fabric. “I’m so sorry you had to go out in that rain.”
“I am sorry you were caught in it.” He grabbed two small hand towels from a nearby washstand, then crossed the room and gave one to her. She thanked him again.
As he tousled a towel through his wet hair, she used hers to dab her own face and hair. She was shivering. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“You didn’t. It is always a pleasure to see you.” Charles began unbuttoning his wet shirt, anxious to be rid of it.
She glanced at him. Her gaze fixed on the movement of his fingers, as if surprised by their intent. “I . . . um . . . went to the manor house to retrieve my manuscript. Woodson said they’d found it and that you might have it?”
“I do,” he admitted a little guiltily. “I know I should have returned it at once. But I got busy. Forgive me. I am soaked clear through.” Shrugging out of his shirt, he hung it over the line he had strung for that purpose behind the stove, then turned back to her. The way she was staring at him now, you would think she had never seen a man’s naked chest before. “As are you,” he added with concern. “Soaked clear through, I mean.”
He noticed that her skirts were so wet they clung to her legs, outlining their shape all the way up to the V where they met. The sight sent blood coursing through his body. Good God, just looking at her made him grow hard. Had she noticed?
Her gaze traveled lower now, and her eyes grew rounder still. Damn it. She had noticed. His cheeks grew warm. “Allow me to get some blankets.”
Grateful to escape for a moment, Charles darted upstairs to the loft, sending a silent message to his private parts. Down, boy. When he felt sufficiently recovered, he grabbed two quilts off the bed and brought them downstairs, where he found her taking down her hair.
He paused on the last step, drinking in the sight of her as she removed the last few pins, then gave her head a shake, letting her long hair settle around her shoulders. His breath caught. He’d only seen her hair down and long once before, when they’d shared a midnight feast in the kitchen.
The memory of the kisses they had shared came back to him again, threatening to restore the state of physical arousal he had only just banished. Damn it to hell. This cannot go anywhere. He cleared his throat to make his presence known and ventured in her direction.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I thought to dry my hair by the stove.”
“Be my guest.” She was still sopping wet from the neck down. “You ought to get out of those wet clothes, as well.” Did I really just say that aloud?
Miss Atherton gave him a direct look and with a teasing smile said, “Lord Saunders, you must know I can do no such thing.”
He let out a low chuckle. “You have a blouse on beneath that jacket, do you not?” Even though he knew he was tempting a fate that would send him straight to hell, he’d love to see her out of that jacket. And the blouse. And everything else.
“Of course I do.”
“Surely you have entertained guests in a blouse before.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “You have a point.” She turned away slightly, unbuttoned her wet riding jacket, removed it, and handed it to him.
He took it and positioned it over the line beside his shirt. When he turned back, he froze.
He hadn’t counted on her white blouse being so wet as to be nearly transparent. She didn’t seem to be aware of this fact and he tried not to look, but that proved to be beyond his power. Through the filmy fabric he could see her corset and chemise as plain as day, hugging the outline of her tiny waist, as well as the bare curves of her creamy breasts. Below the corset, her skirts still clung to her legs and her. . . . Oh how
I would love to see those legs. An image came to his mind of Miss Atherton, standing entirely naked before him. Dear God, if only.
He swallowed hard. It wouldn’t do for her to know where his thoughts had just gone. At the same time, it wasn’t healthy for her to remain in such wet clothing. That was the reason he gave himself, in any case, for his next words. And damn it, it was a good reason. “Correct me if I am wrong, but beneath that skirt, I believe you are wearing riding trousers?”
“I am.” She made a small scoffing sound. “But I can’t very well walk around your workshop in trousers.”
“Men do so every day,” he countered.
“I am not a man.”
“No. But you traipsed across the stage a few weeks ago, dressed as one.”
That seemed to take her aback. “I suppose I did.”
Charles stoked the fire, trying to ignore the fire that was once again smoldering in his loins. “Why is this any different?”
A myriad of expressions crossed her face. He could guess what she was thinking: That was a costume for the stage, in a room full of people. This was just the two of them. Was it decent?
She was right. It was best for her to remain as clothed as possible. “Never mind.” He stood abruptly and gave her one of the blankets. “Wrap yourself in this. I hope it will help to warm you. Meanwhile, I will make tea.”
“You know how to make tea?” She sounded surprised.
“A skill acquired by necessity.” As Charles refilled the kettle from a pitcher on a counter, and found a box of tea and the teapot, he heard the rustling of fabric behind him. He turned in surprise to see Miss Atherton stepping out of her wet riding skirts. He nearly lost his grip on the kettle. Her riding trousers were as wet as her skirts had been, and molded to every curve of her body.
Charles watched her drape the long skirt over the drying line, nearly overcome by the desire to cross the room and take her in his arms, to once again feel the curves of that luscious, feminine body against his own.
How on earth was he going to get through the next hour or two without touching her? It might just drive him mad.
Lord Saunders was staring at her from across the room. His gaze seemed to be lingering on . . . a place a gentleman’s gaze should never linger. The expression on his face was so heated, it produced an equally heated reaction within her, eliciting sparks that rose to set her cheeks aflame.
Madeleine’s heart began to pound. She had decided that it would be perfectly fine for Lord Saunders to see her in trousers. After all, he’d done so before. No one had seemed much perturbed the day she’d worn masculine attire on the stage. His reaction now, though, made her question that decision.
Somehow, she had to break the unspoken tension that crackled through the air.
Madeleine shook open the blanket he’d given her and wrapped it around herself, covering her body from neck to toe. There. That is better. Her pants and blouse were wet, too, but she obviously couldn’t take them off. Standing close to the stove, she drank in the heat that enveloped her, hoping he would attribute her rosy cheeks to that source.
Saunders set the kettle on to heat, then turned two chairs from the nearby table alongside each other, facing the stove.
“Thank you,” Madeleine said.
He gave her an answering nod, a distracted look in his eyes.
She sat down, her heart still racing. The soft leather of her low boots was soaked through to her skin. “Do you mind if I take off my shoes?”
“If you don’t think it would be too scandalous,” he quipped.
She fought back a smile, took the boots off, and set them before the stove to dry, then wiggled her stocking feet before the stove.
“I hope you are more comfortable now?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she said again. In truth, she wasn’t comfortable at all. Not just because of the damp clothes she still wore, or the fact that she was only half-dressed beneath this blanket, but because she was alone with him again, something she’d promised herself would never happen.
When he’d first removed his shirt, she’d been a bit shocked. She’d seen plenty of men naked from the waist up before—boxers and bathers and strong men in the circus—and had thought nothing of it. It was the first time she’d been alone with a man with a naked chest, however. And the first time she’d seen this man’s naked chest. Which was a thing of beauty. All hard, masculine curves, which she longed to reach out and touch. A light dusting of brown hair covered his upper chest, and a narrow trail of hair led down past his trim stomach to disappear into the waist of his trousers.
His pants were damp from the rain and clung to his body, outlining every muscle and sinew and . . . everything else. Another rush of heat rose inside her, this time creating a hollow feeling of want between her legs. With his damp hair falling gently across his forehead, his striking hazel eyes in that handsome face, and his powerful, lean thighs and erect manhood showcased in those tight trousers, he was like catnip and she was the cat.
She chastised herself for these errant thoughts, struggling to direct her mind away from his looks and body. Think about the man himself. All the reasons you love him.
Madeleine took a deep breath and glanced around the room, searching for a topic of conversation to ease the unspoken tension in the air. “Um,” she began, “how are your projects coming?”
“My battery now lasts a good five minutes longer than it did previously,” he said, adding facetiously, “Hooray.”
“That’s a step in the right direction.”
“On a very slow road.” Saunders brought two cups to the table along with a teapot, to which he added fresh tea.
“And your typewriter?”
“I took your suggestion. I’m working on a new kind of type bar, hoping to make a typist’s work visible with every stroke. It is rudimentary as of yet, but I remain hopeful.”
“I believe you’ll succeed on both counts.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Madeleine suddenly noticed that the postcards of naked women she’d observed on her first visit here were nowhere in evidence on his workbenches. “What happened to your French postcards?” she asked impulsively, then wished she hadn’t. The question seemed to embarrass him.
“I . . . put them away,” he said, coloring. “One never knows when they are going to have a visitor.”
That made her laugh. “I see.” Then: “Woodson said your family went to St. Austell today.”
“Did they? I have not been home in days.”
“I hope this means your father is feeling better?”
“He is.” Saunders opened up the second blanket and wrapped it around his own shoulders, then sat down on the other chair beside her. “He has improved vastly over the past few weeks. He does not like to admit it, but that new diet has made all the difference. My family is deeply indebted to you, Miss Atherton. Someday, I hope my father will show proper gratitude for what you did.”
“I did very little. I am just pleased it worked out so well.”
“So are we.”
She smiled, and after a moment said, “Again, I apologize for intruding like this. You said you have my manuscript?”
“Yes, it’s upstairs. I hope you don’t mind. Curiosity got the better of me. I have been reading it.”
“Have you?” Madeleine felt uncomfortable again, but couldn’t resist asking, “What do you think?”
“I must tell you, Miss Atherton, it is a wonderful book.”
“Oh?” The single word escaped her, an exhalation of combined joy and relief. “You liked it then?”
“I liked it very much. The story grabbed me from the first page. I did not want to put it down. Yesterday, I read straight through, barely pausing to eat the meals Mrs. Smith dropped by. Today, I have been reading since I awoke. I was just finishing it when you arrived. If I seemed brusque, that’s why. I was so engaged, I did not wish to be interrupted until I had taken in the last sentence.”
Madeleine
was so dazzled by his words, she could barely reply. “I don’t know what to say. You’re the first and only person besides myself who has read it.”
“I am honored.” The kettle was boiling now. As he filled the teapot, he continued, “You have a way with words that is . . . well, enchanting. I felt as though I was standing right there in all the places you described. I admire your characters. Every one felt like a real person to me, and I was invested in every right and wrong decision they made.”
“Oh,” she said again. “Thank you, Lord Saunders, for those kind words.”
Leaving the brew to steep, he resumed his seat. “I am only sharing my honest opinion.”
“I appreciate it more than you know. Do you think it has a chance of being accepted by a publisher?”
“I think any publisher would be lucky to have it.”
A troubling thought came to her. “Are you just being kind, because you don’t want to hurt my feelings?”
“Not at all. I may not be in the publishing business, but I know a good book when I read one. And I will tell you something else. I do not think a man could have written this book anywhere near as well, if at all.”
“Really? You say that?”
He seemed a bit abashed by her innuendo, but nodded. After a moment, he said, “You were right, what you said in the coach the day you first arrived in Cornwall. You said women are equally as capable as men and just as smart, sometimes smarter. I questioned the point of women attending college. You have shown me how mistaken was my thinking. I have seen what you can do, Miss Atherton. I now understand. I believe that women absolutely can do anything men can do, and given the opportunity, perhaps even more.”
Madeleine could feel her smile lighting up her entire face. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that. If only more men felt as you do.”
“You said things are changing. In time, perhaps they will.”
“I hope so.” Madeleine hesitated. “At the risk of sounding presumptuous, may I ask one more question?”
